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Dear Universe, Dear Friends, Dear God, if there is a god,
It is one year and one month since my brilliant, beautiful, talented Chelsea Faith, “Cherushii,” died in the Ghost Ship fire. Grief is a smoke-smudged, two-way mirror. It’s a false reflection, a provoker of questions. “Is that really me?” I feel as though I have to make the effort to “do” things now - get out of bed, busy myself with chores, tackle clean-up projects, look productive, seem healthy, fill my hours. Why? Who is watching through the glass? I am going through motions as if this clocked busywork is the only worthwhile pursuit left to me. Where is the beauty!? I want to wave away the dense, black smoke, and find what is left. Part of my mission will always be the stewardship of Chelsea’s memory, but she was modest, and would be embarrassed if that were the whole of my reason for living. There is the acknowledgment of my younger daughter, Sabrina, newly married with a life of her own, as my sole legacy child. She has led the wave of friends and family members who realized, through Chelsea’s untimely death, that this short, precious life is ours to own, fiercely and lovingly. How do I honor and love Sabrina in our new roles of Bereaved Mother and Only Child? And what about the forgotten Me who also needs to be remembered? I’m often alone, but never lonely. At this point, a lover would further confound my numbed brain. Grief has become my intimate, wedded companion; it would make for a lopsided threesome. I, alone, must find a way to deal with this complicated, wrenching, yet intrinsically gorgeous life. Chelsea loved the rainbowed arc of her days. Can I?
I guess I want to tell myself I am not irreparably broken, but I am permanently maimed by the double-bludgeon of shock and sorrow. Shortly before Chelsea’s death, I spent six months on crutches. I learned that bone-deep healing happens slowly and imperfectly, but it happens. Occasionally, my misshapen left foot aches, but not all the time. I wear flat, comfortable shoes now, and breaking my foot makes me wonder why I didn’t always wear comfortable shoes. In the same way, Chelsea’s death has made me rethink the concept of a meaningful life. She insisted on making music every day, and living each moment as if it were her last. How ironic. Her death has opened my eyes to her vitality... and to what it means to live out one’s true purpose. And I wonder why we all don’t let authentic joy guide our daily lives as Chelsea did, and as brave Sabrina does today. Is it possible for Damaged Ones, like me, to remember the child-like optimism of waking up renewed each morning? It hasn’t happened since Chelsea’s death. I make do. I carry on. I sleep in as long as I can. But there is a niggling hope in the back of my mind that even these uninspired days are merely a long rest before ... something.
I remember as a child, feeling big ideas stir inside of me, patiently waiting to burst out into a big, beautiful, fascinating life. And then, when I wasn’t looking, my words tumbled away, ineffectually casting their nascent message to the secret seas of my imagination, to cupboarded journals, and unshared dreams. Lost.
Perhaps these later, dogeared years are a second chance to retrieve the long-lost artifact of one’s storyline. Only this time around, we trek old trails on the crutches and canes of experience.
An inner voice echoes advice:
<<Be still, Colleen. Stop with the projects and time-fillers. Observe. Retrace your steps. That’s how you find lost things.>>
I want to rejoin the pilgrimage. Vibrant Chelsea, now dead, and Brave Sabrina, recommitted to living, have inspired me. And one day, when I’ve gathered my found life in cupped hands, I will gently place it on my tongue like Communion bread, and swallow it whole. Then, I will know what to do. I will know what words to write.
Till then ...
~ Colleen
It is one year and one month since my brilliant, beautiful, talented Chelsea Faith, “Cherushii,” died in the Ghost Ship fire. Grief is a smoke-smudged, two-way mirror. It’s a false reflection, a provoker of questions. “Is that really me?” I feel as though I have to make the effort to “do” things now - get out of bed, busy myself with chores, tackle clean-up projects, look productive, seem healthy, fill my hours. Why? Who is watching through the glass? I am going through motions as if this clocked busywork is the only worthwhile pursuit left to me. Where is the beauty!? I want to wave away the dense, black smoke, and find what is left. Part of my mission will always be the stewardship of Chelsea’s memory, but she was modest, and would be embarrassed if that were the whole of my reason for living. There is the acknowledgment of my younger daughter, Sabrina, newly married with a life of her own, as my sole legacy child. She has led the wave of friends and family members who realized, through Chelsea’s untimely death, that this short, precious life is ours to own, fiercely and lovingly. How do I honor and love Sabrina in our new roles of Bereaved Mother and Only Child? And what about the forgotten Me who also needs to be remembered? I’m often alone, but never lonely. At this point, a lover would further confound my numbed brain. Grief has become my intimate, wedded companion; it would make for a lopsided threesome. I, alone, must find a way to deal with this complicated, wrenching, yet intrinsically gorgeous life. Chelsea loved the rainbowed arc of her days. Can I?
I guess I want to tell myself I am not irreparably broken, but I am permanently maimed by the double-bludgeon of shock and sorrow. Shortly before Chelsea’s death, I spent six months on crutches. I learned that bone-deep healing happens slowly and imperfectly, but it happens. Occasionally, my misshapen left foot aches, but not all the time. I wear flat, comfortable shoes now, and breaking my foot makes me wonder why I didn’t always wear comfortable shoes. In the same way, Chelsea’s death has made me rethink the concept of a meaningful life. She insisted on making music every day, and living each moment as if it were her last. How ironic. Her death has opened my eyes to her vitality... and to what it means to live out one’s true purpose. And I wonder why we all don’t let authentic joy guide our daily lives as Chelsea did, and as brave Sabrina does today. Is it possible for Damaged Ones, like me, to remember the child-like optimism of waking up renewed each morning? It hasn’t happened since Chelsea’s death. I make do. I carry on. I sleep in as long as I can. But there is a niggling hope in the back of my mind that even these uninspired days are merely a long rest before ... something.
I remember as a child, feeling big ideas stir inside of me, patiently waiting to burst out into a big, beautiful, fascinating life. And then, when I wasn’t looking, my words tumbled away, ineffectually casting their nascent message to the secret seas of my imagination, to cupboarded journals, and unshared dreams. Lost.
Perhaps these later, dogeared years are a second chance to retrieve the long-lost artifact of one’s storyline. Only this time around, we trek old trails on the crutches and canes of experience.
An inner voice echoes advice:
<<Be still, Colleen. Stop with the projects and time-fillers. Observe. Retrace your steps. That’s how you find lost things.>>
I want to rejoin the pilgrimage. Vibrant Chelsea, now dead, and Brave Sabrina, recommitted to living, have inspired me. And one day, when I’ve gathered my found life in cupped hands, I will gently place it on my tongue like Communion bread, and swallow it whole. Then, I will know what to do. I will know what words to write.
Till then ...
~ Colleen
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